The religious implications of Ryman Auditorium gigs
have long-been established, and since Mumford & Sons has essentially billed
their three-night stint this early March as a kind of homecoming dance or spiritual
residency, we came to our pews in the Mother Church of Americana prepared for a
sonic baptism.
The first night of this “threefer” will fast fade
into history, and I expect many assessments will point to a sad collision of a
young celebrity’s nerves and the high expectations wrought from the band’s
first visit to Music City’s Hallowed Hall. Folks might say that there was
something a little “off” about this show, off for the simple facts that Marcus
forgot his lyrics and fudged not one, but two, songs, and almost botched a
third. But during the closing “Cave,” the lead singer begged the crowd to sing
along, suggesting that if he fell to his fears we would fill his ears. And we
did make a beautiful choir, coming together to belt out our part for an epic
crescendo.
From my arrival at this beloved pop temple for the
umpteenth time, I noticed something “off,” too, but it wasn’t even show time
yet. There was no beer line. But the merch line wove around the balcony lobby
like a snake. I confess I’m so jaded by people getting stupid-juiced at shows,
that seeing only moderate drinkers, plenty of little kids, other middle-aged
people and teetotalers like myself, and rarely anyone intoxicated—this was an
added blessing to coming to church on a Tuesday night.
Opening act Agigail Washburn—a curly-haired banjo
player with an angel’s voice—did something else “off”: she went off-mic for a
truly acoustic version of her traditional closing number “Bright Morning Stars.”
Later, the Mumfords would follow suit, taking at least two numbers to the
front-of-stage for quiet, truly unplugged renditions. During the last of these—I
think it was “Sigh No More”—some fans couldn’t help singing along, but they did
so at such a respectful volume that it only added to the majesty of what Marcus
and crew were doing on stage.
Joined by renowned dobro player Jerry Douglas, the
band covered Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Boxer” before a rip-roaring “Awake My
Soul.” As heartfelt-hopeful and gut-soothing sacred as the familiar tracks
were, the cover and the newer songs really owned the night for me. Marcus
Mumford’s fast evolution into rock god hangs on the hinge of his humility and
humanity—he’s more of a “Wretched Man” (as one of his pre-Sons demos was
dubbed) than a holy man.
Flubs and flaws aside, we still fly to new heights with
artists who keep us on the ground. The lyrics to “Below My Feet” illustrate
this well: “Keep the earth below my feet/For all my sweat, my blood runs weak/Let
me learn from where I have been/Keep my eyes to serve/My hands to learn.”
How refreshing to rock out with this new folk revival that rests its reputation on remaining in reality. I don’t think Marcus Mumford was having a meltdown of the medical or medicinal nature, and he certainly wasn’t having a tantrum as some stars have been prone to throw. He was just nervous to be sharing the stage that some of his heroes still haunt. And he asked us to help him get through it. And we did.
How refreshing to rock out with this new folk revival that rests its reputation on remaining in reality. I don’t think Marcus Mumford was having a meltdown of the medical or medicinal nature, and he certainly wasn’t having a tantrum as some stars have been prone to throw. He was just nervous to be sharing the stage that some of his heroes still haunt. And he asked us to help him get through it. And we did.
The son of evangelical church leaders, Marcus wears his
religious influences on the white, rolled-up sleeves of his lyrics. Fame might
hold a dangerous “spell,” as “Below My Feet” suggests, but “But I was told by
Jesus/All was well/So all must be well.” For Mumford fans in middle Tennessee
this week, all certainly is well!
(Photo of Hatch prints from Mumfords/Ryman
websites.)
